Surrogate
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Hollywood Babylon-ish tag: Sam's always dreamed for him. Dean could take a turn.


**Surrogate**  
K Hanna Korossy

It had started soon after they'd met Dad in Chicago, while they'd both recovered from job-related injuries.

"You could be a mechanic."

Dean, who'd successfully ignored national news highlights, Sam's declaration he was hungry, and a tossed sock, looked away from the TV at that, face creased with puzzlement. "Come again?"

"A mechanic," Sam said, sitting up on his own bed as he warmed to the subject. "You can fix anything on the car, you built that EMF meter yourself—you'd be a great mechanic, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean said slowly, like one talking to a three-year-old. "If I didn't already have a job. You know, saving people, hunting things?"

"I know, I just…maybe someday, all right? After all this. I could go back to school and you could come with me and be a mechanic or…something."

Dean kept his face carefully blank. "Right, I'd fit in just great with all your college buddies—your blue-collar brother living in the basement?"

Sam flushed. "That's not what I—"

"How' bout we kill all the evil things out there and then have this conversation, huh?" Dean shifted carefully onto his side, minding bad leg and bad arm and most of the rest of his body that was still not happy with him.

"Dean, I have _never_been ashamed of you—you know that, right?"

And, well, he actually did. Sam had gone straight from hero-worship of his older brother to anger at him for being Dad's sap without ever hitting the shame stage. Dean shrugged awkwardly, an apology of sorts. "Don't worry about it, dude."

"Dad was a mechanic, too…before." Sam had gone very soft; John Winchester was still a painful topic for them both. But Dean was listening, to the slight shifts of the body, to the earnest timbre of his little brother's voice. "I don't want to lose you again, Dean," Sam said from behind him, then added, "You'd make a good mechanic, man," with what even Dean had to admit sounded like wistful pride.

It tightened his throat and burned his eyes in a good way. A minute later, he turned back and started talking about the stupid horror movie that was on, Sam listening raptly.

And, you know, he so would have been a kick-ass mechanic.

00000

"You could be a writer."

It wasn't as out of the blue the second time, even if they were in the middle of Iowa, nothing but flat land and horizon around them. Dean gave his brother an almost whimsical look this time. "A writer."

"Sure."

"Because I was so good at English in school."

"No, because you've got a way with words, and God knows you've got stories to tell."

"Huh?"

"Not making a good argument for yourself here," Sam said with a grin, then sobered partly. "Dean, you're writing all the time in the journals, and you know, you're pretty good. I bet you could write about what we do and sell it as a book or something."

"Right…so, the whole Winchester Rule Number One about shutting up about it, that doesn't count for mass publication."

"Dude, it's called_fiction._"

"Yeah, and it's called, _I've already got a job._"

"I'm just saying—"

"No, you're just browbeating. Let it go, Sam—I like what I do, and if I had time for a second job… oh, right, I already have one. Hustling to pay for the first one, remember?"

"There's more to life than just hunting, Dean."

"Yeah, family."

That silenced Sam, thank God. The Impala ate up the stretch of flat road, Pink Floyd rolling them along like the stalks of whatever growing in the fields they passed.

It was another dozen miles before Dean just couldn't help asking anyway.

"You think I'm a good writer?"

A small smile from Sam. "Yeah, man, you are. Better than most of the kids I went to school with."

Huh.

00000

"You could be a pilot."

Dean broke his gaze from the small airplane poised for take-off to stare incredulously at Sam.

Who grinned back at him.

"Dude, you have a death wish or something?" He glanced around the tiny radio room one more time, deciding any mess that was left, the airport would just have to deal with. At least they wouldn't have a phantom air controller trying to crash planes anymore.

Sam snickered.

And it was his clothes Dean sent flying that night, right into the courtyard of the motel while Sam slept.

00000

"You could be a P.E. teacher," Sam said as they both sat watching the kids, some of whom they'd saved from the shtriga, playing on the playground.

Dean was tired and not in the mood. "Sam, just…stop."

"Dean—"

"No, I get it, I do. You want a different life for me. And I appreciate it, but that's what you want, not what I want."

Sam turned on the park bench to face him, not looking hurt or annoyed, simply curious. "So what do you want, Dean?"

"You to stay." Oh, God, had he just said that out loud? It was like that bell and the slobbering dog. "Job's a lot easier with someone to watch your back," Dean quickly added, not looking back at Sam.

"For the rest of your life?" Sam asked quietly. "This is all you want to do?"

Dean squirmed. Why did they always have to talk about this? "Geez, Sam, I don't know," he said with exasperation. "I'm not thinking ten years down the line—man, I don't even know what job we're gonna do next. This is what it is right now, that's all I know."

"Fine, Dean, I'm not trying to make you decide today, all right? I just…I want something more, for both of us. Someday. Together."

Dean couldn't say he didn't want that, too.

"Just let me dream, all right?"

And there was no way he could deny that. Dean rubbed his boot in the dirt, gave Sam a sideways glance. "Dude, a P.E. teacher? A whistle and shorts and twenty screaming kids? That's a crappy dream, Sam. Why not a rock star or race car driver or something?"

"Because I'm being realistic," Sam said with a smile. "And you're good with kids."

He…huh. Well, yeah, okay, not totally farfetched. But, "No shorts, Sammy," he said darkly.

"I'm sure we could work something out."

00000

Then Dad died.

And just before he did, he told Dean he might have to someday kill Sam.

Sam became _Chosen_, grief turning to fear. And they both stopped dreaming after that.

Mostly.

"You could go back to school," Dean said softly in the dark of a motel outside Guthrie, just a few dozen miles from where another chosen kid had shot his brother, taking a little bit of Sam with him.

"That's not funny, Dean," Sam said in a weary, old voice from the other bed.

"Not trying to be funny," he shot back. "This isn't gonna last forever, Sammy—we'll figure this out, kill that yellow-eyed son of a bitch, and then you'll be free, man. You can do whatever you want."

"I don't want anything," Sam whispered.

"Fine, then what I want," Dean said easily. "Like seeing you cross that stage in one of those dorky looking hat and gowns so I can make fun of you. And becoming a lawyer, 'cause God knows, this family could use one."

Heavy silence from the other side of the room.

Well, he was already hip-deep in it; might as well keep going. "I wouldn't mind being an uncle one day, for that matter. Take the kids out for ice cream and target practice and…whatever you do with kids, then bring them back to you when they're hitting their sugar high? Oh, yeah." He chuckled, then held his breath.

It took a few seconds, but there was a faint snort, the barest sound of engaged amusement. "You would, too," Sam murmured.

"Hey, what are brothers for?"

A sigh. "Yeah, maybe. Someday." Not hopeless now just…not quite believing.

That was okay. It was a start. And Dean could keep Sam's dreams for him in the meantime.

00000

They walked away into the sunset…or at least the backdrop of a sunset. Dean sighed contentedly. "I love this town."

Sam glanced over at him with a roll of the eyes. Then gave him a small smile. "You could…be a PA for real."

Dean blinked, looked at him.

Sam looked back, steady and clear-eyed.

He bumped Sam's shoulder, feeling a real moment of happiness that had nothing to do with meeting—and banging—starlets or getting to be part of a movie crew. "Nah, think I'll stick with you a little longer. Still some bad things out there to kill, Sammy."

But he was grinning.

**The End**


End file.
